The Long Haul

They're camped out in Tahrir again.

A tent city has sprung up to house those displeased with the feet dragging of the military men running Egypt. The scene is at once festive and urgent. Acoustic performances precede chants of "The people want the fall of the Field Marshall" (Tantawi, the head of the military council). And when the government allegedly cut the electricity in Tahrir last week, memories of the Revolution's martyrs kept the square aglow until dawn.

Over the past few days, I've read many an Egyptian youth quoted in the paper saying something to the effect of: "Mubarak is gone, but his regime remains. We will not leave the square until we're satisfied."

And so a sort of rough, interactive check on power has taken place where the people occupy the square as a simple "no" vote on issues such as the pace of transition to a civilian government and Prime Minister Sharaf's new cabinet picks. It is democracy in its chaotic, physical form, the only recourse of a people without democracy in writing.

The revolution must go on. For the sake of Egyptian dignity. For the sake of casting a compass for the Arab world. For the sake of shattering all of the hypocrisy and condescension that has gone into supporting Arab strongmen at the expense of the Arabs themselves. For the sake of seeing the odious old man of Sharm el Sheikh behind bars.

The Egyptian military still carries great respect among Egyptians of all backgrounds. But for this covenant to stay in tact, the council needs to reciprocate with greater respect for civil society. Rather than censoring the press, lecturing youth leaders of the Revolution, and maneuvering to write their power into the new Constitution, the generals should remember that this was a Revolution, and not a coup.

A few analysts have connected Egypt today with Turkey 20 years ago, when the Turks were stifled by a poor economy and a meddling army. Turkey's military retains great power today, but is also a relatively healthy democracy with an average income of $13,000. The other path drawn from present-day Egypt is to Pakistan, where a civilian leadership cowers before the military and the economy runs on foreign aid.

Cultivating a strong civilian leadership starts in Tahrir, where this week the people's chanting drowned out a military spokesman who came to appeal for patience. The people still want the fall of the regime, and in its place one of their own.

Dispatch from Tahrir

6/29/11

The following is a brief account of the recent clashes between police and protesters in the streets of Cairo as I saw them. This is just a snapshot. If you want the backstory check the international media. In short, an incident Tuesday (6/28) night, in which police would not let a crowd of people into a theater to commemorate those who died during the Revolution, sparked an overnight standoff that carried through this afternoon (and perhaps even now)

I got word of the unrest while at work, a few miles down Cairo's corniche from Tahrir Square. Twitter was crackling with indignation at the police response to the protestors. "How can these pigs call us thugs?"; "A group of doctors carrying medical supplies to Tahrir have been arrested."; "Guys, if u wanna come to Tahrir, bring water, vinegar, and food, we're starving."

I asked one of my colleagues about the wisdom of going to Tahrir. He struck me as a deliberate guy, and he had warned me to approach an uneventful protest last month carefully. "You should go," he said. 'There might not be another opportunity this exciting while you are here."

And so I went. I arrived in Tahrir proper about 1:30 pm and saw smoke creeping up the street where the American University of Cairo stands. The street was strewn with rocks and charcoaled rubble. Young men with bandanas as shields from the smoke were dragging barricade fences up the street with vigor. As I walked further down the street, my eyes began to simmer and I saw passersby weeping from the tear gas. People lined the sidewalk in clusters, where they seemed to be recounting the day's action and checking for any battle wounds that they could wear proudly. One man raised a bloody hand to wipe a face full of anguish. Others posed with their bandages for grateful photojournalists. There were also several crowds forming around men who were shouting and gesturing widely at each other. My limited Arabic kept me in the dark as to their grievances.

I turned down a street that had a climactic look to it - an army truck was parked at the far end, while a small fire smoldered in the foreground. Droves of men with arms linked shouted "back to the square!" and strode past me. I came to the barricade at the end of this street. Riot police had erected a fence and were lined up across from about 50 protestors. Some youth had climbed atop the fence and were shouting slogans at the police, who would not engage with direct eye contact but instead muttered replies and stood rooted to the ground. I walked round this scene, all the while taking pictures.

Then a scowling man caught my eye. I looked back and sensed that I had triggered something unpleasant in him. He marched towards me and rapped my chest with his stubby finger.

"Where you from?"

I stuttered while saying, "Amrika."

"You sure?"

I offered my passport as proof, which he pored over much more carefully than had the immigration official who admitted me to the country. Every stamp was suspicious. Why Egypt? Why now? I simply said, "I am a student. I like Egypt."

"Ok. I thought you were from Israel. Be careful."

This accusation is making its way into the official repertoire. I won't say much other than that I hope xenophobia does not reach the levels it did during the Revolution, when government propaganda spoke ominously of a foreign hand and several journalists were attacked. This is not about to happen again. People are by and large hospitable. But the accusation of espionage against foreign nationals has been used. It is a sensitive time.

I left Tahrir today knowing that the Revolution is ongoing, that popular protest is a necessary antidote to official inertia, and that many people here are still subject to the whims of a few.

Looking for a Brawl with Fascism

Christopher Hitchens, the inimitable atheist, elegant writer, and principled gadfly, among other superlatives, has esophageal cancer. I am not going to pretend as if I know the man, but after reading his delightful and erudite attack on religion, God is Not Great, and watching him excoriate the deceased Jerry Falwell in front of men very sympathetic to Falwell, I can say that hearing of Hitchens' illness brought me uncontrived sadness.

As a critic recently said of Hitchens, "if (he) did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." His writing sets out to shock you and challenge your convictions. He rightly argues that cruel rituals such as genital mutilation and the taking of child brides would scarcely be tolerated if stripped of their religious pretext. And his indictment of religion certainly isn't scant on historical detail or exegesis of scripture. Hitchens has gladly debated scholars of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam in many a public fora.

Mr. Hitchens does not see a contradiction in being at once a freewheeling drinker, a dispenser of insults and also a person of great character. He, like his hero George Orwell, sees the fight against fascism and its present day derivatives as the final test of someone's morality. At the age of 59, he welcomed a beating from a fascist militia in Beirut when he defaced one of its swastika-stamped posters. Hitchens later matter-of-factly told a media outlet, "My attitude to posters with swastikas on them has always been the same. They should be ripped down."

David Brooks sees Hitchens as unique in the field of American journalism in that he underpins his opinions with a literary perspective that values "psychology, context, courage, and virtue - important things that are hard to talk about in policy jargon or journalese." This is precisely why, in a field so sorely in need of resolve, it will be necessary to revive and reinvent Christopher Hitchens as time passes.

A Distant Land, A Distant Hope

"Whither Iran?....."

About a year ago, I was itching to go to Iran. I sent out a rousing and somewhat satirical email to friends who might be interested in going, boasting that the “mullahs won’t know what hit them.” To be successful, any such trip would have to be meticulously planned and executed with high caution. But I wanted to whip up support with some cavalier language. I wrote that “ideally, we would be there for the June elections when there is a palpable but distant chance that Ahmedinejad will get upset.” It is a good thing that I wasn't able to get into the country then. Foreign journalists with actual credentials were bullied, harassed, detained, or deported. But any freelancing fool, especially an American, might have it worse.

It does not get worse than Evin Prison, where so many blameless Iranians have wasted away. The dungeon sits right in Tehran, and many accounts of the abuses within have reached Western audiences. The Iranian theocracy takes much the same attitude with Evin as it does with its nuclear bomb-making: “What will you do about it?” We can at least listen to the many tortured voices that ring forth from the prison gates. One such voice is that of Roxana Saberi, an Iranian-American journalist who, in her new book, evokes the many layers of sorrow residing in that monstrous jail. By the end of Ms. Saberi’s 100-day captivity, her plight was finally in the international spotlight. But this was not before she languished for weeks without word to the outside world.

Perhaps it was Saberi’s unique ability to report to the West from Iran that so riled her captors. A comely blend of Persian and Japanese parents (she's probably sick of those preoccupied with her good looks), Saberi carries an American passport and a tongue fluid in Farsi. She arrived in Iran in 2002 to research a book she planned to write on Iranian society. While doing so, she was drawn to the people and decided to stay in the country after her press credentials were revoked. In the early pages of the book, one gets the sense that, despite being a foreigner, Saberi felt somewhat at ease in Iran and unencumbered by the authorities. There was the occasional snooping from the intelligence ministry, but nothing that signaled she was in grave danger.

And then something snapped. Her life was blindsided by self-deluding men accusing her of espionage. The game played by these thugs is frighteningly cynical: "We know you are working for the CIA. Admit this and agree to spy for us, and you will be freed. Deny it and you will stay in prison indefinitely." The "evidence" presented against Saberi was laughable. By the end of the psychological warfare waged upon her, Saberi's captors admit to knowing of her innocence all along.

Why carry out this fakery? I think it was simply an exercise in power for the Iranian secret police. They were angered by Saberi's ability to move about the country without a translator doubling as a snoop. And once they had Roxana in their clutches, they got personal. "How long do you want to be in here?" one of the agents asked her in first day of captivity. "In a couple of years, you will lose your looks." They were trying to reduce her to a pretty face, and a fleeting one at that. As the reader finds out, Saberi is no brittle belle. She forces Evin's hand with a hunger strike and instead offers nourishment to her cellmates with her stories from America. After three months of prison, she emerges a haggard reflection of her former self. Yet despite enduring the evil of Evin, and inspiring many along the way, Roxana is dogged by her conscience. What of her acquaintances and contacts whom the secret police may now take a keener interest in because of her? What of the cellmates she was leaving behind to rot while she resumes life in America? Ms. Saberi will be hard-pressed to find an antidote for her anguish, but she deserves one.

International attention was the tipping point in Saberi's case. Despite all of their suffocating methods, the authorities could not keep Saberi completely hidden from the public eye. Once, in transit between courtroom and prison, a young woman caught her eye and smiled subtly while saying, "You must be Roxana. The whole country knows about you. We are praying for you." The support of the Iranian and American people sustained Saberi, and showed that shared compassion can sometimes outmaneuver politics to good effect.

With Iran being the steel trap to Americans that it is now, I am forced to read about the country from the safety of my dust-ridden couch. Most of this reading will be rather depressing tales of persecution and suppressed talent. But I look forward to using this blog to highlight examples of a resilience that will hopefully carry the Iranians through this perilous time. No one knows when it will come to pass.

Roxana Saberi with Mohammad Khatami, Iran's president from 1997 to 2005 and a current member of the opposition movement.

Broadway Makes Waves

In a bid to broaden his repertoire, your correspondent donned the cap of a theater critic and boarded the Intrepid, a massive carrier docked off the west side of Manhattan for "Fleet Week". The occasion was an hour-long medley of Broadway hits performed by the casts of The Addams Family, American Idiot, Hair, Million Dollar Quartet, and Promises, Promises. Having heard about the rip-roaring energy of American Idiot, I envisioned a swell of boisterous sailors moshing to this punk-rock opera. That this vision failed to materialize did not make the American Idiot cameo any less jolting. The frontwoman was flanked by three of her female colleagues on each side. The lead singer carried the day, as much with her inimitable expressions as with her scorching vocals. It felt like Green Day with a slap of femininity across the face.(The promoters of Idiot tell us that you don't have to like Green Day to like the musical. I'm the wrong person to test that theory on, but there appeared to be many people aboard the Intrepid who didn't know "Basket Case" from "Brain Stew". The idea to expand Broadway from the teeming Theater District to the shores of Manhattan was a hit.)

The Periscope has a seat at Monday's performance of Idiot on Broadway. Your correspondent expects the energy he saw at Fleet Week to be magnified on stage.

Let His Name Sink In

Abdullah Abdullah stood dapper before his Upper East Side audience, one arm resting regally on the podium. But his face was grim and words measured when he told us: “He thinks you will be there forever.” The “he” was Afghan President Hamid Karzai, and the “you” the American military. Throughout his appearance at the Asia Society in Manhattan, Abdullah scarcely referred to the man who evidently stole the presidency from him by name. He chose a distant tone, as if he were speaking of an estranged relative. This solemn, sobering voice grew more evocative when it spoke of the many young Americans, and many more Afghans, who have perished in his great pasture of a country.

Abdullah Abdullah deserves a bigger stage for his message. This isn’t to call the Asia Society quaint, but to call for a greater understanding among Americans of exactly whom we are defending in Afghanistan. It is more for men like Abdullah Abdullah than for an abstraction like “freedom” that we fight. Abdullah has been resisting the tyranny of the Taliban for decades. He knows that American troops will never be able to completely drain the swamp of extremism, so we might as well acknowledge what is at stake for Afghans in this war.

“The worst thing the U.S. can do is blur the line between the friend and the enemy,” said Abdullah Twice. Discern, do not alienate, he beseeches us. Most Pashtuns (the ethnic group from which the Taliban draws most of its recruits) do not want the Taliban back in power. They want respite from the clutches of barbarism. Nor do Pashtuns want to live side-by-side with NATO soldiers the rest of their lives. This is a simple yearning for dignity. It should not have taken the American command eight years to place the utmost importance on avoiding civilian casualties. When it comes to their livelihood, people will prefer the occupiers who kill less of their children. Sadly, between drone strikes and checkpoint fiascoes, the score is closer than it should be.



Abdullah Abdullah talks with Joe Klein of Time Magazine at the Asia Society in New York. This photo was obviously not taken from press row.

Start Befriending Imams

The failed bombing of Times Square has reopened a debate in the mainstream American press about the roots of radicalization. The would-be bomber, Faisal Shahzad, was a gentrified and presumably “well-integrated” Pakistani-American living in Connecticut. His father was a high-ranking officer in the Pakistani air force. The boy attended a school in Peshawar famous for sons of the wealthy. Then he won a scholarship to study in the United States.

Shahzad did not live the life of an ascetic in his first few years as an exchange student in Connecticut. According to a New York Times profile, he stood out from the 14 other Pakistani students on the University of Bridgeport campus. Shahzad “walked with a confident air, showing off his gym-honed muscles in tight T-shirts”, “had a wider circle of friends and a fuller social calendar (than his compatriots)”, and “hit New York City’s Bengali-theme nightclubs” on the weekends. Rounding out this portrait of machismo is a quote from a former classmate saying that “(Shahzad) could drink anyone under the table.” Sounds like a good candidate for any self-respecting fraternity.

But next, of course, comes the plunge into extremism. Well, not just yet. First, Faisal marries a Pakistani-American from Colorado and has two children by her. He earns a master’s degree in business at the University of Bridgeport and grows more affluent at a new job. He barbecues and tends to his lawn. He lives American.

With Shahzad, there never really was a “plunge into extremism.” His anti-Americanism seems a long time festering. He reportedly watched the Twin Towers burn with a sense of justice. “They had it coming,” he told a friend. Who exactly are “they”, Mr. Shahzad? Do the 9/11 victims who were from Muslim countries give you any cognitive dissonance?

The last two attempted terror attacks on U.S. soil came courtesy of upper-class jihadists. (The Underwear Bomber is the son of a prominent Nigerian banker.) They are two men who sucked from the teat of Western capitalism and open societies, only to spit their privileges back out in indignation. “Can you tell me how to save the oppressed?” Shahzad wrote to a group of friends in 2006. “And a way to fight back as rockets are fired at us and Muslim blood flows?”

Some radicals are irreversible. They have chosen martyrdom and there is nothing we can do about it. But the delusion of some has been helped on less by ideological factors than by material ones. Endless poverty or the loss of a loved one might spin these impressionable youths out of society's orbit and into the arms of extremism. We must do what we can to catch these wayward souls before they ricochet back into us to devastating effect.

One man up to the task is Hesham Shashaa. Mr. Shashaa is an Egyptian of Palestinian extraction who makes his living as imam of the Darul Quran mosque in Munich. Imam Shashaa follows the strictest form of Islam, Salafism. Yet unlike some of his colleagues across Europe who have denounced terrorism but sympathized with the causes of Al Qaeda and Hamas, Mr. Shashaa declares these groups to be violators of Islam. He visits Muslim communities across Europe to preach the incompatibility of violence with the Muslim faith. He had the courage to go to Pakistan to inform students at a madrassa that bin Laden and Mullah Omar (the head of the Afghan Taliban) were phonies. "It must be the head of state or caliphate who announces jihad", said Mr. Shashaa, adding that jihad must also be limited to self-defense. "What they (bin Laden and Omar) do is not jihad." A man in the audience stood up in a rage and called for Shashaa's head. The globetrotting imam responded resolutely, "If you can show me in the Koran or the Sunnah that I am wrong, then I will be the first one who would take a gun and join them, but you won't be able to find something like that." Shashaa knows that scripture vindicates Islam as a religion of peace. Let him win as many doctrinal arguments with the brainwashed as he can.

We hear a lot about how Muslims are confined to the margins of European societies. The gruesome murder of Dutch filmmaker Theo Van Gogh and the French quest to ban the burqa are two flashpoints in post 9/11 Islamo-European relations. Because of the proximity of Europe to the “Muslim world”, a different kind of tension permeates the immigration debate across the pond. Authors like Ian Buruma write of “Eurabia”, or the coming tectonic collision between these two civilizations. But people like Imam Shashaa can help quiet the tremors. His sense of humor is a start. The man looks like Osama bin Laden and has been heckled by Westerners for it. So Shashaa shuffles through the streets of Munich wearing a sign that reads, “I am not Osama bin laden. I am Hesham Shashaa.” He also charms his onlookers by God-blessing them in the German tongue.

The German police coordinate well with Imam Shashaa. But they should not see the imam as a means to an end. For cross-cultural trust to grow we must cross these lines anytime we can, not just to gather intel. Muslims in Europe and America feel unfairly targeted by authorities. Counter-terrorism efforts have involved bugging mosques and placing agents among the congregation. This is sometimes necessary work, but it should be avoided when possible and complemented by an unclenched fist to Muslim communities. This outreach is not just about combating terrorism; it’s about realizing a brotherhood of man. Imagine it.

I am Hesham

Bradley Lays Down His Cards (Part I)

If I felt so compelled, I could launch an offshoot of this blog dedicated solely to soccer, both the electronic and real-life versions. That has yet to happen, so my legions of readers better gear up for a summer of incisive reporting on the biggest party on the planet.

For starters, have you seen the ad previewing the World Cup narrated by Bono? It has a slick lyrical rhythm to it and crescendoes nicely to get you excited for the matches. The premise of the ad, however, is debatable. "It's not about politics..." Soccer is very often political. I have written about this in a previous post, and don't feel like going into detail now. Plenty more on that in forthcoming soccer posts.

In this first installment of my preview of the World Cup, I will focus on the initial 30-man roster that U.S. national team coach Bob Bradley selected this week. This group will be trimmed to 23 by the end of the month as each peripheral player goes under the microscope.

On the whole, Bradley has made some sound choices:

Starting in goal, Tim Howard has two sturdy back-ups in Marcus Hahnemann and Brad Guzan. Goalkeepers are America's biggest export in soccer goods, and this is one position where we top the English (our first opponents of the tournament).

Injuries convolute our back line. When all are healthy and in good form, the starting four should be Jon Specter at right back, Oguchi "Gooch" Onyewu and Jay DeMerit in the middle, and Jonathan Bornstein on the left. Carlos Bocanegra, a savvy player who often wears the arm band, is too slow to play on the flanks and should come off the bench for one of the center backs. Specter is an effective passer, while Bornstein offers something going forward.

The U.S. midfield may be our biggest shortcoming. The Yanks are particularly stretched when it comes to defensive midfielder, a crucial position that, when played right, eases pressure on the back line by gobbling up the opposition's attack. Michael Bradley, the coach's son, is versatile and our best bet in the middle. He is a strong tackler and can rip a shot from distance. But he needs more help than is available. The physicality of Jermaine Jones, a German-American who recently switched allegiance to the U.S. national team, would have allowed Bradley to venture forward without worrying about leaving his back line vulnerable to a counter-attack. But chronic injuries mean Jones will miss the World Cup.

We turn to three talented but unpredictable players in search of Bradley's midfield partner. Maurice Edu would be a solid anchor. He won "Rookie of the Year" in the MLS in 2007 (a more competitive award than it used to be) and gained important international experience with the U.S. at the summer Olympics. Ricardo Clarke has spent more time on the field with Michael Bradley and his tenacity would be welcome. But Coach Bradley should be leery of starting someone who tends to end up in the referee's book. A turning point for America in the last World Cup came when defensive midfielder Pablo Mastroeni was ejected for an idiotic tackle against a short-handed Italian side. Another option in the middle is Benny Feilhaber, a creative player whose first instinct is not to defend. How Bradley designs his midfield may be the biggest determinant of America's fate in South Africa.

The venerable veteran Brian McBride has finally retired, and it is good to see some fresh legs up front. Jozy Altidore is blessed with power and pace. He will likely start, along with Landon Donovan, America's all-time leading scorer. I am happy to see Donovan playing with more conviction these days and he must not wilt on the big stage. Clint Dempsey is a unique player who thrives as a secondary striker and not as a midfielder. Dempsey brings swagger, cunning, and a knack for finding the net (he was our only scorer last World Cup). And, in his own words, "thanks to soccer, I rock more ice than a hockey skate" (click here to watch the explosive music video). Rap may be more closely associated with a sport like basketball, but Deuce proves capable of bringing it to the sidelines of a soccer practice.

A final thought in this abbreviated preview: Charlie Davies should still be on the roster. The diminutive spark plug was the best player in the United States' run to the Confederation Cup final last year. He is remarkably fleet of foot and has the grit that Donovan sometimes lacks. But just as Davies' career was taking off, he was in a disfiguring car crash that left one of his friends dead. This was last October. Doctors and physical therapists understandably ruled him out of the World Cup. Davies had fractured bones in his leg and face. He is lucky to be alive.

Just five months later, Davies was running through drills and vowing to be ready for South Africa. It was to be a rousing return, one that would surely motivate his teammates. But Coach Bradley has decided to leave him off the 30-man roster to allow Davies to make a full recovery. This is a reasonable enough decision, but it hollows out some of the spiritual unity on the team. Bradley knows how this tragedy has affected his team, and he would be right to have Charlie in training camp, even if he will not be ready for the World Cup. Besides, Davies is better on one leg than Eddie Johnson.

The Periscope will be on hand to watch the U.S. team play its final match before heading to South Africa in about two weeks. Since we are not playing a Latin American country, there is a good chance the crowd will be for the home team.

A Paean to Zou

The phrase “unsung hero” is overused and has a cheesy gloss to it. The reason some players are “unsung” is that sports commentators suffer from monomania when looking at a game. They salivate over the superstars and overlook the “role players”. It’s a disservice to the game, a mere marketing tool.

Many commentators would apply the label of “unsung hero” to Brian Zoubek, our bearded gladiator who stands 7’1. In his first couple years on the team, Zouby often gave the impression that he wore two buckets of cement for shoes. Here was another underwhelming white stiff, a player who could contribute by taking up space rather than using it deftly. It was especially difficult for Zoubek because, after the departure of Shelden Williams in 2006, Duke has not had much talent in the frontcourt. Our guards have been a lot easier to watch and rarely have we turned to someone of Zoubek’s dimensions. Coach K has preferred “small ball”, which has been effective, to a point. When Zoubek stepped into the rotation, our fans had high hopes for an interior force. There is nothing more emasculating than watching your team give up offensive rebound after offensive rebound. Assert yourself inside, protect the house, and let’s get back to raining 3’s.

Zoubek has also been haunted by injuries, spending two summers on crutches. Some fans did not rue his time out and wrote him off. Others jeered when he entered the game. But the man knew how to set a screen, and he knew how to take a charge. That Zoubek was keenly aware of his limitations allowed him to economize his time on the floor.

Zoubek always had the “Zou” cheer, the one that fans do with players’ names that sound like “boo”. Amid his struggles, it was often a shout of pity rather than one of appreciation. But the Zou-ing grew more frequent (and genuine) the last two months of this season, just when we needed to gel for a run at the title. Zoubek turned out to be a crucial anchor inside for a team of potent three-point shooters. He learned that leaping ability is often irrelevant when you’re starting six inches above your opponent. He was also more rousing in the huddle than his teammates. (Greg Paulus and Lance Thomas were bobble heads, while Zoubek knew how to galvanize with bear hugs and terrifying clenches of the jaw.) He could serve as a thoroughfare for our offense and a defibrillator on the boards. In short, Zoubek was the missing piece from ’04, the big man who was able to navigate foul trouble and haul down that last rebound to bring the title back to Durham.

The press conference after the title game was a fitting coda to Zoubek’s career. Reporters, in effect, asked Zou if he was just as incredulous as they were about his success. A “who would’ve thought?” consensus permeated the room. Coach K snarled at one reporter who described Zoubek as having an “up and down” career. But the media was right. The only one who could’ve possibly known about the redemption of Brian Zoubek in advance was the man himself. He defied us all.

Cracks in the Junta

The Burmese junta is probably the second most repugnant regime in Asia after the slave state of North Korea. Burma is ruled by a band of aloof generals who recently moved the capital from the biggest city, Yangon, to an artificial one as if to emphasize their estrangement from the people. I had the privilege of visiting this beautiful country five years ago. I call it Burma and not Myanmar because the latter name was introduced by the junta in a campaign of cultural homogenization. “Burma” is a relic of British colonialism, so pick your poison.

Back to the dawn of 2005: My family had tried unsuccessfully to book a trip to Phuket for New Year’s. Fate spared us when a giant wave ripped up the coastline and left a thousand tourists dead there. We were instead airborne on our way to Burma when the tsunami hit. At our hotel in Yangon came rumors that several Burmese had died in the wave. No one knew how many or where exactly because the country has no press. The junta has you, in life and in death.

While the rest of Southeast Asia held its breath for the tsunami postmortem, Burma slept in the junta’s steel embrace. It was a kingdom of muted monks, frail farmers, and hushed hawkers. The regime seemed to have the order it sought. I am not sure I saw a policeman, soldier, or any other authority in my ten days in Burma. Billboards were the thought police. One read:

“People’s Desire:
OPPOSE THOSE RELYING ON EXTERNAL ELEMENTS, ACTING AS STOOGES, HOLDING NEGATIVE VIEWS
OPPOSE THOSE TRYING TO JEOPARDIZE THE STABILITY OF THE STATE AND THE PROGRESS OF THE NATION
CRUSH ALL INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL ELEMENTS AS THE COMMON ENEMY.”

Burma’s is a drowsy, stifled hinterland. The economic malpractice of the junta keeps poverty at a suffocating level. Little in the way of commerce flows through those dirt roads. And while the hinterland lies motionless, civil war flares on Burma’s frayed edges. The Shan states have been unruly subjects of the junta for decades. Most of the rebel encampments are across the border with Thailand as the Burmese military brutalizes its own landscape.

It is a whole lot of misery against a breathtaking backdrop. A bleeding sun scales the pagodas to kiss the bald heads of monks on their way to work. Lithe old fishermen bow to the current as they comb the depths of Inle Lake for their next catch. Clouds of ash drift above treetops as supper is prepared and the sun scars the sky in descent.


Aung Aan Suu Kyi is Burma personified. She has been imprisoned in her own house since winning election twenty years ago. She is worth much more than a bumper sticker for Westerners who read about her in the paper. Rather than flee the country, she suffered alongside her people as the junta’s squeeze tightened. The legitimacy gap between the kleptocrats who rule the country and the dissident who holds its soul is screaming for international attention. China, the Burmese regime’s principal benefactor, has been largely silent in the face of this suffering. The junta’s heavy-handedness is all too familiar to Beijing. The United States, meanwhile, has been principled but ineffective in not engaging the Burmese generals. Sanctions have failed to bring the country out of isolation.

We have to start exploiting the cracks in the junta, especially those opened up by the regime itself. The New York Times reports of “guarded hope among business people and diplomats” that Burma “may be moving away from years of paranoid authoritarianism and Soviet-style economic management that has left the majority of the country’s 55 million people in dire poverty.” A new constitution may come alive at the end of the year, perhaps followed by the first elections since the one stolen by the junta in 1990.

Other reasons for optimism include some privatization of state-owned factories, the lifting of ownership restrictions on cars, and the way in which Nobel economist Joseph Stiglitz was eagerly received by the junta in December. The generals are now interested in reviving a rice industry that they watched drown in a cyclone two years ago.

Any election held while 2,000 potential candidates sit in jail is a sham. But it will mark a diffusion of power that could be a watershed for Burma. This Gorbachev-esque move is why I give the Burmese regime second place to Pyongyang on the list of the most draconian in Asia (some of the “-stans” in Central Asia are a close third). Sadly, despite Kim Jong-Il’s poor health, North Korea isn’t much closer to cracking the way Burma apparently has.

Are We Getting Any Better at Combating Genocide?

It is the time of year on Capitol Hill when lawmakers consider calling the first genocide of the 20th century what it was. This should be straightforward. The Ottoman Empire’s mass deportation of Armenians in 1915 led to over one million dead, eviscerating large traces of a people. The American ambassador to Constantinople provides a damning account in a caption to a photo showing scores of Armenian corpses:

"Scenes like this were common all over the Armenian provinces in the spring and summer months of 1915. Death in its several forms - massacre, starvation, exhaustion - destroyed the refugees. The Turkish policy was that of extermination under the guise of deportation."

But then again, some feel it more important not to embarrass an ally. Turkey is about as secular as they come in the Middle East and can help Iraq stagger to its feet. I am not sure how bad the diplomatic fall-out would be should Washington find its balls here. Perhaps the same spastic fits we see from China vis-à-vis the Dalai Lama and then back to business; maybe deeper consequences. But none of these possibilities scare me when silence on genocide is the alternative.

At the very least there have been six cases of genocide since the Holocaust. Chronologically, the chief perpetrators and victims are:

1) The Khmer Rouge on their own people

2) Saddam Hussein on the Kurds

3) Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic on the Bosniaks

4) The Hutus on the Tutsis

5) Slobodan Milosevic on the Kosovars

6) Omar Bashir and the Janjaweed on the Fur people

In all of these instances, thousands were slaughtered before the “international community” considered intervening, if it did at all. So benighted was Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge that it was several months into the bloodbath before eyewitness accounts emerged. The evidence was much swifter in implicating the Bosnian Serbs, but this did not prevent General Mladic’s men from digging mass graves that showed up on the satellite images of U.S. intelligence. Our ability to combat genocide has not improved with our means of documenting the crime.

During the Bush years, many liberals pined for the foreign policy of Bill Clinton. At least Clinton didn’t get us stuck in two wars, they said. But two genocides went unchecked on Clinton’s watch. He waited three years while civilians in Sarajevo were pounded with artillery before ordering a tepid bombing of Serbian military positions. And after the nightmare of Black Hawk Down, President Clinton did not fancy involving the American military in Rwanda’s inferno, where an average of 5,000 were butchered every day for three months.

Bosnia shocked the Western media more so than Rwanda or Darfur because it happened in Europe. Genocide had returned to the continent fifty years after the Third Reich. Banja Lunka was the new Auschwitz, Mladic the new Himmler. Here was mass murder in the backyard of a Europe reconciled. Franco-German relations were better than ever; dictatorships in Spain and Greece had given way to agreeable democracies; the European Union was on the march. But the Balkans were an inconvenient outlier for European mandarins punch-drunk with peace. For some, the words never again meant never again thinking that genocide was possible in Europe after the Holocaust.

Also clouding the Western conscience was the idea that the Balkans were hopelessly resigned to conflict. On President Clinton's nightstand was Robert Kaplan's Balkan Ghosts, a book that paints ethnic strife in the region as routine and eternal. The Slavs and Muslims had been going at it for centuries, wasn't this all natural and beyond our control?

Politics pulled the strings for Clinton's Bosnia policy. In his 1992 campaign for president, Mr. Clinton blasted President George H.W. Bush for not deterring the Bosnian Serbs. One was led to believe that a President Clinton would be willing to use force to stop the killing. But the new administration did not move outside a policy of denial of the facts on the ground until the war was in its fourth year. Until then, it often laid blame on all sides (Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks) while using the charade of consultation with European allies.

The Clinton Administration went to great lengths to avoid the word "genocide" because using it might have suggested a responsibility to intervene. When Secretary of State Warren Christopher tiptoed up to Congress to testify on Bosnia, he went as far as to say that the atrocities committed by Bosnian Serbs were "tantamount to genocide". Apparently that word, "tantamount", was just enough of a face-saver for Christopher and the Administration. But what useless rhetoric for the hundreds of thousands terrorized by the Yugoslav Army, for the UN personnel taken captive by the marauding Mladic.

The tragedy in Bosnia reminds us of the limits of relying on a deeply flawed United Nations or a self-interested United States to prevent genocide. Mladic and Karadzic dared the West to stop them and the mass-murderers prevailed. There are many explanations for America's inaction. The simplest is a reluctance to call it genocide, a powerful word that changes the debate. A crime against humanity is one that cannot be countenanced by human beings. But it is a crime that won't leave us unless we are clear about its manifestation. Srebrenica was genocide. Al-Anfal was genocide. And yes, the Armenian Genocide was genocide.

*Samantha Power's A Problem from Hell: America and the Age of the Genocide was a source for this post. I strongly recommend it and so does the Pulitzer Prize committee.

**Update: The Swedish parliament voted to recognize the Armenian genocide, while the U.S. House Committee on Foreign Affairs said as much in a non-binding measure. Turkey recalled its ambassadors to both countries and warned of "serious damage" to ties in the case of Sweden.

Jan Baalsrud

The story of Jan Baalsrud makes me proud to have a double A in my last name. To hell with Quisling and Knut Hamsun, this is the stuff the Norge are made of.

Valparaiso

There was just one blemish on my time in Valparaiso, one a bit more personal than stepping in one of the many mounds of dog excrement that litter the city. I left a futbol café with a place in mind for live music. It was closed. Remembering the guidebook’s description of the bars east of Plaza Sotomayor as popular with the sailors come to port, I went looking for a seafarer’s haunt. I found nothing but eerie buildings and buses on their way home. I came to a dimly lit square. As I passed through, someone from a group of teens said god knows what to me in Spanish. For discretion’s sake, I consulted my map behind a statue. I had just laid my bag at the foot of the statue when a hoodlum from that group swooped it up and sprinted off the square. Still holding my photocopied sheets of Neruda poems, I sprang my step and hauled ass after him. My adrenaline was whipping me into a frenzy as I lengthened my stride. We were making our way up the mazy streets of Valpo and it was high time for me to retain my camera and dignity. Now only a few yards behind him, I began clawing the air to try to collar him at full speed. He heard my crazed breathing and must have known he had it coming; just then he flipped the bag over his head to me and ran off into the Chilean night. I had scarcely noticed an accomplice running alongside him, ready to play a game of catch with my satchel. I fumed and shouted after them and took several seconds to remember I was in a back alley in Chile. A couple of abuelitas gawked at me as they shuffled home.

My newfound insecurity rattled me all the way up the hill, where I sought refuge in the night-time panorama of the city. I didn’t want a fluke incident to blight my conception of Concepcion, one of the wondrous thoroughfares that led me up to my hostel. I put my feet up on a banister overlooking the harbor and, after a smoke and a coffee, the city’s luster seeped back into me as my sweat began to dry. I gaped for awhile at the port that had once been the western hemisphere’s busiest. Sometimes it’s necessary to jostle with the mayhem down below to appreciate such a vista.

I scoffed aloud at the amateurism of the thief – as petty as they come, ill-prepared for a tourist willing to tussle. Neruda’s moonlight cut through billowing clouds casting out to sea. I reached into my bag for the poems I had saved for my last night in Chile, but then realized that the thief really had succeeded in robbing me. In switching to survival mode to chase him down, my hand had involuntarily let slip the Neruda poems. So goes the loss of innocence in a city cloaked in serenity. I closed my eyes to inhale the crisp air and forgive all that was below me. The moon was watchful, the ships docked for the night, and somewhere up the hill in La Sebastiana, Neruda’s ghost promised me a second reading.

The Wine Cradle of the Andes

Mendoza was sepia for the winter but the mountains were still there, as was the wine. There’s something disarming about the flatlands below a mountain range, as if nothing can fall on you....We arrived on a Thursday morning, as did El Gripe in the newspapers: 300,000 exposed, 40% of schools shuttered. Added to this premonition of malaise was the detectable filth on the city’s streets – storefronts looked blanketed by a dust storm and cadaverous dogs hobbled up after you as you passed. While the winter may sully the city, the outlying vineyards retain their unspoiled beauty and the Andes are eternal. We hired a guide and toured three vineyards in addition to the five-course tasting menu we enjoyed at another estate. This cost $150 a head.

Our area of focus was Lujan de Cuyo, a lush valley minutes south of Mendoza. Our tour guide painted a not-so-rosy picture of how El Gripe was squeezing his ski business. This jeremiad influenced our tip at the end of the day.

Since we hadn’t had a fluid conversation with a stranger in several days, we got on well with the guide. In my own head, I couldn’t conjure the circumstances that had plucked this laid back outdoorsman from the pines of Washington state and placed him in Argentina. He mentioned a girlfriend and a job as a ski photographer, but I was unable to connect the dots because it all seemed a whimsical, if enviable, undertaking.

To our virgin nostrils, the wine was ambrosial. Naturally, we concentrated on the Malbec grape, a cast-off from France that was born again on the Argentine hillsides. Its vibrant violet color took on a fantastic glitter as I held it up to the sun. I think being onsite boosted the taste, as a satisfactory sampling is the only acceptable follow-up to all of the swirling and sniffing and smacking of the lips.

Our first bodega was Alta Vista, a rustic compound built by Spanish immigrants at the turn of the century. The charming hostess led us through cavernous basements where the wine mingles with flavored oak in enormous barrels until its ready for drinking. We glimpsed estate workers busy calibrating the wine to its proper temperature for fermentation. For red wine, Alta Vista uses century-old concrete vats that require a delicate finessing of the temperature. A fire is lit under the concrete and the heat disperses throughout. White wine isn’t as sensitive to temperature variations and can be fermented in larger steel vats.

The first provocative wine we sampled at Alta Vista was Torrontes, a signature white wine of Argentina. To avoid the taint of charlatanism, I won’t broach the oenologist’s phrasebook. Words like “oaky” and “earthy” mean nothing to me. One of my few criteria for wine is that it startle rather than bore me. White wines rarely do the former to my stubborn palate. Torrontes, with its robust, lingering flavor, was a welcome exception.

We next visited Club Tapiz to take in a larger scale bodega. The American label Kendall-Jackson had owned the estate a few years back but an Argentine family proudly returned it to local hands and whitewashed the Jackson name from all of its branding. Why? “We didn’t want the stigma.” So much of the appeal of these vineyards is in them being a generational labor of love.

On arriving at Tapiz, we were ushered into a horse-drawn carriage for a drive through the vineyards themselves. Dust flew up and settled to reveal the supernatural silhouette of the Andes. The driver pulled up next to some idling llamas that looked a bit like men in llama costumes. We were bemused to see each other. I wondered aloud if the clumsy creatures trampled the vines, but no one seemed too concerned.

The wine flowed from this picturesque welcome and against such a backdrop, how could any aroma cause offense? Tapiz showcased its impressive arsenal of vintages beneath a stately chandelier in a barn house. A 2006 Malbec classic struck me with vim so I bought a bottle. We also had the luxury of tasting the wine directly from the vat and attempting to discern these inchoate flavors from their fully matured and bottled cousins.


We needed some nourishment to sponge up the wine and it came in the form of a five-course tasting menu at the lovely Bodega Ruca Malen. The seating chart was such: my four companions to my left and right, and myself opposite the Andes. The young servers blushed before announcing each course in lilting accents that heightened my expectations for an epic repast. The meal was such:

1) Yauquen Sauvignon Blanc 2008 – “refreshing, light and citric”
Goat Cheese Bruschetta

Objective of pairing: “To highlight the citric flavors and fresh fruit of the Sauvignon Blanc”

2) Ruca Malen Malbec 2006 – “Deep, elegant nose”
Slices of Filet Mignon cured with olive oil from Lunlunta

Objective of pairing: “To highlight the fresh red fruit and sweetness of the Malbec”

3) Ruca Malen Merlot 2006 – “Brilliant and intense red…Hints of both
vanilla and chocolate”
Wheat Croquets with Wild Mushroom Ragout
and caramelized onions

Objective of the pairing: “To highlight the black pepper as the aromatic descriptor”

4) Ruca Malen Carbernet Sauvignon 2006 – “An intense ruby red with
hints of toasted oak”

Kinien Malbec 2007 – “On the nose red fruits and some floral violet
notes"

Roasted Beef Tenderloin with squash, sweet corn and mashed potatoes

Objective of pairing: “To show the structure of these two varietals, highlighting the spicy side of Cabernet Sauvignon and flower notes and sweet tannins of Malbec”

5) Granite made of Chardonnay, yerba mate, and honey

White chocolate and season fruit


The menu had every reason to boast. The flavors were all there, even the indescribable ones that the menu so enticingly described. We stayed two hours and were content to stay two more. It was a meal that you impulsively label your best ever because it is so vivid and anything but fleeting.

We wrapped the day at the homey Bodega Sottano, which produces just a few thousands bottles a year. By this stage the wine was evoking some heady conversation. Our affable hostess may have another job as a grade school teacher as she often interjected with a palate quiz: “Where on your tongue do you taste this wine?” “What varietals are striking you?” “What colors do you see in this Cabernet Sauvignon?” As in grade school, I tried to guess the answer by the tone of the teacher’s voice. By the fourth red wine I was running out of colors and labeled one fuchsia. She saw that I was using words that she might not recognize in order to improve my quiz score. I apologized for my inept Spanish and fell silent.

Next she bestowed famous look-alikes on our group of four. One was told he resembled Roger Federer (not the first time), another the singular Waldo, as in “Donde esta Waldo?”, and my third friend an elusive Latin pop star (probably the first time). The hostess decided my beard reminded her of Joseph Fiennes and for the rest of our tour I was known as Shakespeare. We thought it only polite to offer her a celebrity of her own. Despite our assurances that her twin is “an attractive American comedienne”, she was dissatisfied with what Google Images returned for Sarah Silverman. We had evidently exhausted all conversation on wine. It was time to hand in our connoisseur badges and step out of the surreal.

The sun ducked behind the Andes as we parted ways with the vineyards and returned to Mendoza city. We muttered impressions to each other through teeth stained purple from a day’s work. “A good place for a honeymoon.” “How good an investment is a vineyard?” Our guide was grinning at our ravings about the day, his Van Gogh beard holding a couple of droplets of Malbec. This was the bliss I had come for and all the trifles of travel – delays, flu, foreign tongues, and general disarray – wilted in the dying embers of the day.

Calling it like It Is

In the foreword to Life is What It is, Patrick French refers to his biography of V.S. Naipaul as perhaps the last of its genre compiled entirely from paper documents (biographies will henceforth be gleaned from Facebook, emails, and other electronic paper trails). He goes on to write an unsparing account of an ingenious writer shadowed by a callous man. French's patchwork is painstaking. Perhaps in realizing that, in his own words, "there can be no doctored truth", Naipaul allowed his biographer unhindered access to his archives and the diaries of his deceased wife. It was a remarkable opening up for a man who, at an obscenely young age, declared friendship superfluous and treated relationships as grist for his ego.

French is right to subtitle his book “the authorized biography of VSN”; Naipaul has garnered a lifetime of snubbed protégés, many of whom have spilt vindictive ink in Sir Vidia’s direction. It pained me to read of Naipaul's dismissal of Paul Theroux, an author whom I greatly admire, as a fatuous travel writer. When Theroux finally realized the extent to which Naipaul had accessorized him, the former wrote an impassioned memoir, Sir Vidia’s Shadow. While Mr. French draws on Theroux’s outtakes from a friendship gone sour, it is the biographer's dispassionate narrative that allows the reader to hand a more damning verdict to Naipaul than Theroux could have hoped for.

The irony of Naipaul's outbursts provides bits of levity in the story. Naipaul had long disavowed the role of his alma mater, Oxford, in his literary achievements; when an editor has the audacity to critique his punctuation, Sir Vidia pistol-whips him with his degree. Another scene that allows the reader to chortle at an otherwise frightening man: upon returning to Buenos Aires, Naipaul runs madly through the airport and hops a fence out of fear of a confrontation with his mistress's husband. The man's idiosyncracies take a slight edge off the most abrasive of personalities.

After pages of ghastly revelations on the private life of the Nobel laureate, I was surprised to read A.N. Wilson’s judgment that Tolstoy was more of a “monster” than Naipaul. Wilson is more qualified than anyone to judge a character contest between the two curmudgeons, but I beg to differ. I can only recall a few of the lurid equivalents to Naipaul’s “monstrosities” in Wilson’s biography of Tolstoy. Yes, both men were unraveled by sexual guilt and both were gallingly ungrateful for their wives’ help in the literary process. Both men drove their spouses to insanity and left them to rot in the mad house. But Naipaul’s narcissism inflicted more damage. He is, by his own admission, guilty of negligent homicide in carrying on a twenty-five year affair and frequenting prostitutes while his wife toiled for his dreams. Pat Naipaul seemed to stomach her husband’s affair until she found out via the newspapers that Vidia was "a great prostitute man". The revelation may have triggered a psychosomatic break and a precipitous descent for her health. Naipaul’s ex post facto remorse is too laden with self-pity to gain any moral capita with the reader. It is a great relief that we can keep the man in one corner and the writer in another, for despite making himself a caricature of insensitivity and prejudice, Naipaul wrote profound and evocative accounts of post-colonial struggle. His societal insight is, according to French, unrivaled.

Perhaps A.N. Wilson’s impartiality should be questioned. When Naipaul was caught driving drunk in 1993, Wilson groveled that the famous writer should be tucked into bed rather than brought to court. And in Wilson’s review of Life is What it Is, he avoids moral accountability for Naipaul. Titling your review “Master and Monster" obliges you to be as brutally honest as French was in writing the biography. And what if Tolstoy were alive? Might Wilson’s verdict read differently?

If there was a point to this post I've strayed from it. Naipaul forged his literary persona by freeing himself from the inconveniences of reciprocal relationships and camping out as a displaced observer among the displaced peoples of the 20th century. The collateral damage from the molding of an artist was a necessary sacrifice in Naipaul's eyes, one dutifully accepted by his first wife. It is fascinating to learn of the creative destruction that infuses a writer's work, even if the reader is among the urchins swallowed by the tide of the writer's gaze.

"Words Without Thoughts Never to Heaven Go"

With a certain Dane's words as guidance, I sat down to remember a fallen relative. Elegies have thankfully been few and far between for me and I was keen on ensuring that mine did not dissolve into a generic tribute applicable to any kind-hearted man. This man was a giant in the family and no scribblings could recreate the way a room would sway when he entered. My only lyrical consolation was to address him directly, as he had done every time he spoke to me:

"Uncle Harm, your hospitality springs eternal. Whenever I arrived States-side after months overseas, you were the first to welcome me back to America's heartland. Yes, I do fancy a game of ping pong and lunch with your sprightly bride. How humbling it was to observe a man in the element of his own making, the spoils of years of hard work and unabated love.

Your focus was always your companion, never yourself; your curiosity for what others have seen insatiable; your capacity for merriment undiminished through the years. Has the world known a more genuine or reassuring handshake?

I can only end by giving you a title I hope you'll wear proudly in Heaven: the grandfather I never had.

Amen, my buddy, Amen"

I'm Not There

There was plenty of appropriate symbolism in the musical guests both on Inauguration Day and at Sunday's concert at the Lincoln Memorial. Crooners from Aretha Franklin to Stevie Wonder embodied the significance of the moment. But one musician might have rounded out the line-up more than any other: a certain Robert Zimmerman. Dylan is, of course, a devoted recluse and it might have taken some luring to get him down to Washington. And he might not have warmed to such a staged appearance. There are a slew of reasons why it wouldn't work, but they would all be trumped by the realization that the times really are a-changin'. Some 45 years earlier, Dylan cut a scrawny figure as he sang "Only a Pawn in Their Game" through his nose in a civil rights demonstration on the Mall. His lyrical potence has made casual observers of injustice uncomfortably familiar with their consciences. So for all of the poetry that rang out this week, we could have used one more refrain. It would have been a perfect replacement for the unrelenting narcisissm of Bono.

The new president is a fan, referring to "Maggie's Farm" as a song that "speaks to me as I listen to the political rhetoric". Dylan and "post-partisanship" might go well together.

A Pitch for Peace

I came to believe in the cathartic power of the world’s game after taking in an impromptu soccer match between monks in a Burmese backwater. There, in an unheralded village between Yangon and Mandalay, lay a gem of earthly spontaneity. The pitch was a humble tract of sun-baked mud, but its unlikely surroundings brought a sense of eminence to the proceedings – a shallow lake became one sideline and two adjacent embankments provided elevated viewing for spectators. After a week of listening to my guide boast of how every landscape we observed was uniquely Burmese, I was attentive to a scene that proved him both right and wrong. Under the “uniquely Burmese” category might fall the holy men who checkered the pitch with their luminous maroon robes and jocular soundtrack to the match. In so much as my a priori ignorance of Burmese culture would allow, I also designated the rhythmic cheers emanating from the village crowd as “uniquely Burmese”. But if you were to zoom the viewing lens on the tattered ball that bounced from one spry foot to another, you could easily emerge in another part of the world, amongst another set of bare feet. Here, Kurdish children clad in European jerseys clamor for a shot on goal.

This is where my story dissolves and Ian Klaus’ fades into view. Where the touchline had been a lake in Myanmar, here it is a foreboding border with a hostile country. But these footballers are heedless of international fault lines and perhaps even of the wars endured by their forefathers: a boy casually hops the stone wall marking the Iraq-Iran border to retrieve an errant attempt at goal. For these young Kurds, their own touchlines trump those drawn by statesmen. The dusty pitch provides a stage for self-expression, much the way a dinner table provides a poor family confirmation of its self-sustenance. There is something primordial and natural in the rivalry between the Kurdish towns of Tawela and Biara and the molting of inhibitions on the pitch. There is nothing natural in the border post that stands within earshot of the match. Just as in Myanmar, where Orwellian edicts hover over the citizenry from billboards, Iranian theocracy is a ludicrous sideshow to the freedom provided by the pitch.

Some grassroots organizations are trying to expand the pitch’s touchlines, to claim more fertile land for the artistic minds of young footballers. The younger they start, the better. As Franklin Foer chronicles in How Soccer Explains the World, it does not take long for soccer to mirror sectarianism. Rival hooligans pivot effortlessly from stadium brawls in peacetime to shelling each other’s neighborhoods in guerilla war. The “beautiful game” carries the seeds of a beautiful but tragic life. The liberating bliss with which young players take to the pitch is menaced by the “realities” of war and staid conflict. It is all too often a cruel choice between staying at home and joining the thugs who practice ethnic sport. Either way, the primordial innocence of ball, feet, and dust is lost.

A few years after my trip to Myanmar, the world got wind of a tragedy unfolding in Yangon, the former capital. Thousands of monks were descending on the city in spartan defiance of the ruling junta. Soaring fuel prices had sparked the protests, but there was also a palpable purge of grievances held for decades against the government. The junta responded with the Tiananmen playbook, mowing down the revered monks and jailing thousands of sympathizers. Macabre, awful, and sorrowful though the 2007 crackdown was, it cannot disrupt the tranquil image in my head of monks as the sentries of Burmese society. They had found refuge in the village soccer pitch that day, a rare haven unfettered by tyranny. When it came time to leave the pitch, whether hours, days, or years later, the monks left in resolute columns and carried the dignity of a supportive people with them.

The Iraqi Diaspora

Nick Kristof aptly referred to refugees of the Iraq War as “the new Palestinians, the 21st-century Arab diaspora that threatens the region’s stability.” America’s inadequate response to the 2 million refugees (and the additional 2 million internally displaced persons) created by its 2003 invasion of Iraq is inconsistent with both our founding ideals and martial precedent.

As Morton Abramowitz detailed several months ago in an LA Times op-ed, the contrast between America’s handling of refugees of the Vietnam War and those fleeing today’s violence in Iraq could not be starker. In the 1970’s and ‘80’s, some 2 million Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Laotians fled Southeast Asia due to war and economic strife. Impelled by guilt and pressure to regain some of its moral footing, the U.S. welcomed 1.2 million of these Indochinese refugees and sent aide to countries affected by the human efflux. Collective guilt was a powerful impetus then, but is in short supply now. You can add a “deficit of remorse” to the list of deficits accrued by the Bush Administration. Given a final chance in exit interviews to reflect on what he has bequeathed the Middle East, President Bush hasn’t changed his tune, whistling Je ne regrette rien all the way back to Dallas.

But outside the self-deception and legacy burnishing going on in the White House, countless Iraqi refugees languish in the dilapidated neighborhoods of Amman and Damascus. These Iraqis embody the “unwanted” stigma of the refugee: Jordan and Syria don’t want to provide aide out of fear of becoming permanent asylums; Iraq’s Shi'a leaders have shown little concern for the plight of the mostly Sunni refugees; and the United States is reluctant to acknowledge unintended collateral damage in its role as “liberator”. But international watchdogs and relief agencies consider the Iraqi diaspora among the world’s most daunting humanitarian challenges. Washington needs to recognize its moral obligation and, just as we did during the First Gulf War with the resettlement of Iraqi Kurds, ensure safe repatriation for refugees who wish to return to Iraq. Furthermore, post-9/11 immigration restrictions need to be amended so that the U.S. is welcoming more Iraqi refugees every year than Sweden. This falls on Congress as much as the Administration. In May of 2007, Rep. Earl Blumenauer (D-OR) introduced the “Responsibility to Iraqi Refugees Act” (H.R. 2265), a commendable bill that would have increased the number of Iraqi refugees eligible for resettlement in the United States in 2007-08 by 20,000. Republicans were deplorably unsupportive of the bill, however, and it is now collecting dust in a subcommittee. If we really are to reap what we sowed in Iraq, it is up to the next administration and Congress to work in concert to ensure a safe haven for Iraq’s refugees.

28 hours of Semi-Autonomy: My Jaunt into Kosovo

Note: The names in this story (aside from those of public figures) have been altered out of respect for privacy.

June 2007

As Frommers had prophesied, there really isn’t a whole lot for the ‘tourist’ to do in Pristina. In the end, however, I wouldn’t have to look far for inspiration or hospitality. I cut across Mother Theresa Boulevard to the parallel street where both the United Nations Interim Administration Mission in Kosovo (UNMIK) and the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) hold their offices. Only a couple hundred meters from UNMIK headquarters and above the Youth Center looms a giant photograph of the late Adem Jashari, co-founder of the Kosovo Liberation Army (KLA). I entered the security shed outside of UNMIK with little idea of how I would present myself other than as a curious citizen of the United Nations, a rare breed.

The head of the UNMIK Press Office was kind enough to take me to his office for a chat. I entered the facility giddy that I was able to walk among armored KFOR trucks and satellites gathering worldwide intel. (KFOR, short for “Kosovo Force”, is a NATO-led peacekeeping force that has been under UN administration since 1999.) Roger Talbot is an editor of FOCUS, a UNMIK publication that details the latest political, economic, and social developments from around Kosovo. Above all, Mr. Talbot conveyed the lingering uncertainty that governs Kosovo: the yawning gap between Kosovars’ strong desire for independence and their apathetic political participation; the imminent but imprecise date when UNMIK will bequeath the mission to the European Union; the intense skepticism that Kosovar Serbs have about living a life unhindered by prejudice and harassment. For many Kosovars, every effort of imagining a better future is clouded by unrelenting memories of the carnage of 1999. If Kosovars are not convinced that their future paths can converge peacefully instead of eroding each other, then the fledgling state will be left to crumble.

I couldn’t think of an excuse to prolong my stay in the UNMIK compound and reluctantly handed in my visitor’s clearance tag. After asking a security guard for input on my itinerary, I thanked him and crossed the street to mull my options over lunch. I looked up from my menu to see the same man grabbing the seat across from me with a grin, “I’ve got time for a break.”

Andon needed little prompting. In my twenty minutes sipping Fanta with him, he told of the rupture the war caused both personally and nationally. Andon had been working in a hotel in Switzerland when the KLA and Yugoslav Amy began fighting. He rushed home to fill a male figurehead role that many households sorely missed during the war. I listened as Andon recounted in impressive English the incessant terror felt by residents of his town as the Yugoslav Army raided home after home. It could have only been a hearty dose of luck that kept Andon and his family alive. All of this was expressed with a stoicism that belied what he must have felt at the time.

The seeds of the past respectfully sown, Andon turned his attention to his prospects. Working security is among the most profitable trades in Pristina, and my companion had the added bonus of social mobility. In just a few days time, he would be leaving his UNMIK post for a more lucrative security job at the U.S. consulate. “My friends are all jealous,” he chuckled. Indeed. Some 40% of Kosovo’s youth are jobless and the government has tried to stem the growing pessimism with the 11 million-euro Kosovo Youth Action Plan for employment. “Do young people believe the Prime Minister can deliver?” I asked Andon. “They like him a lot; he is a war hero”. Hero for some, wartime nemesis for others. Andon had to get back to work but told me to come find him if I needed anything. I went inside to pay after we had parted ways, only to find that Andon had picked up the tab when I wasn’t looking.

Mitrovica: Bridging the Gap


The latter half of the day took me an hour and a half north to Mitrovicë, or Kosovska Mitrovica, as the Serbs call it. No more poignant a symbol of the conflict exists than the bridge that cuts the Serbian and Albanian halves of the town from each other. The southern bank of the Ibar River is home to some 50,000 Albanians, while 10,000 Serbs are just a stone’s throw to the north. In March 2004, the bridge was the fulcrum of the worst outbreak of violence since the war when two Albanian children drowned in the Ibar. Twenty-eight Kosovars died in the ensuing riots, most of them Albanian. I had used images of the bridge and its daunting sign that reads, “Malicious or provocative behavior shall be repressed immediately” in my documentary and decided to head directly there upon arrival. The bus ride was a spectacle in itself: Albanian-Turkish music blared; schoolchildren were dropped off in empty pastures as part of their commute home; one passenger lit a cigarette with a toddler perched on his knee. I jumped off the bus at Mitrovica and strode towards the bridge in the gathering rain.

My walk to the bridge took me through the Albanian side of town, cutting past the main mosque and a couple of grimy street markets. The rain coated everything with a drab hue. Where Pristina is arbitrary in its reflection of a war torn people, Mitrovicë is a blueprint of division. On one side a mosque, the other a church. On one side the writing in Albanian, the other Cyrillic. On one side a steadier pulse, on the other hypertension underscored by more KFOR troops. KFOR sprawls into all four corners of Kosovo. The Italians operate in the west, the British in the region’s center, including Pristina, the Americans are in the southeast, and the French are in charge of the north, where Mitrovicë lies. Although I was apprehensive walking past the KFOR troops with submachine guns on the bridge, the real tension was on the other side. KFOR trucks can be found at nearly every block; overhead a sign pleaded in English and Cyrillic “In the name of God and justice, do not make our holy land a present to the Albanians!” I entered a military shop where the Serbian owner was speaking French to some KFOR troops. He was trying to persuade them to buy army gear venerating French KFOR’s protection of Kosovo’s Serbs. I wanted to ask residents about life on this side of the Ibar River but the rain ensured that I had little company but the military.


Irked by the lack of a “story”, I trudged back across the river and entered a shop at the bus station to whittle away the minutes before my departure. In a move I had repeated throughout the trip, I was paying for my bottled water with too big of a bill. In a tagline he would repeat throughout our two-hour conversation together, Behar Mataj belted out, “Nix problem!” I offered to get change from somewhere else, but Behar was adamant, “No money? Nix problem! Sit down!”
“American?”
“Yes,” Behar slapped the table with approval and a few others in the coffee shop smiled or cheered. Behar spoke little English but I soon learned by the way others deferred to him that he carried some weight in the neighborhood. He brought his teenage son, Iljaz, over from behind the counter to roughly translate. Why was I here? Is America as prosperous as it sounds? I pulled out a copy of my documentary to answer the first question. Appreciating that I’d made the journey, Bajram tried fervently to use English to get his point across.

“Serbia…mafia…politic…no good…” He went into a tirade without words, his eyes glinting as he turned to his son in frustration. Mr. Mataj had a story to tell, but he couldn’t get it out. ‘Come to my home; I show you”. We ducked the railing at the station and twenty paces later stopped at a plot of weeds next to his home. “My restaurant,” was all he said. According to Mr. Mataj, his restaurant had been razed to the ground by the Serbian police. With it he lost his means of living as well as the roots of his social life. Unable to shake the memory, Behar put on a videotape of one of those lost nights at the restaurant. A band played traditional Albanian music and there was a young Behar, bursting into the foreground with an array of dance moves. I couldn’t suppress a laugh and suddenly we were all laughing at the young Behar losing himself in the music. But Behar knew when to stop laughing. The camera panned away from the band to a group of sinister-looking men sitting in the corner of the restaurant. They all had started out as friends, Behar explained. He singled a couple of them out with disgust. “This man…” Behar paused to make a whispering sound and a meddling gesture, “with Serbia”. These were evidently Albanians who had betrayed him to the Serbian police. Behar then asked his wife to bring him a cache of photographs and documents. One by one he pointed out friends and eventual foes that had served with him in the KLA. The wall was adorned with pictures of Behar proudly wearing his uniform, along with Behar tearfully burying his colleagues. Seeing that he was popular with Mitrovicë Albanians, local and national politicians had all met with Behar. Then, we got to the crux of his angst, the reason the man’s outgoing demeanor had been coated with cynicism since the war. Behar handed me an official UNMIK document that read:

“Mr. Mataj reported an attempt on his life on 07 December 00 at 03:05 am and named two of the suspects in the shooting. This was an attempted Murder case and as such was taken over by the Regional Investigations unit.”

- Signed: Will Stephens, Station Commander of Mitrovica South Station

I looked up at Behar. His eyes cursed the mistrust that had entered his life that harrowing day. I asked him who the suspects were, but he wanted to move on. He showed me an OSCE document certifying him as a Municipal Election Observer. If there was one thing that I gleaned from Mr. Mataj's words it was his disdain for the corruption that plagued his people (“mafia…politic…problem...you…me…nix problem…friends!”). I told him I was happy that he could fight for his community with ballots instead of bullets. I wrote my gratitude down on paper for his son to translate later, thanked his wife for the tasty Turkish tea, and jogged to the station to flag down the bus that was already rolling out to Pristina.

……………………………………………………………...........................

After three hours of dining at one of the best restaurants in Pristina, I had only spent 15 Euros. I looked up from my book to see a familiar face on the other side of the terrace. Prime Minister Agim Çeku had his head cocked as he exhaled on his cigar and listened to the animated restaurant owner tell a story. Just a few hours earlier at the Kosovo History Museum, I was looking at a picture of Çeku planning a guerilla offensive. I asked the waiter to initiate the process of requesting a photo with the prime minister: the waiter asked Çeku’s bodyguard, who shrugged and gestured for the owner. I watched it all unfold and realized how rude it could potentially be. The owner didn’t trouble the PM but instead came over to me and offered: “Americans and Albanians are friends, but for the prime minister this is family time."

As I left the restaurant, I smiled at what could have been my best interview in Kosovo. But what would have I said to him? If not America, if not UNMIK, then surely you, Mr. Prime Minister, must have some indication of where your province is heading. But the ineluctable truth, as it rings out across the minarets of Pristina and along the banks of the Ibar, is that even the skipper doesn’t know what course his ship will sail. What remains refreshingly clear, however, is that it will have to be its own course. No timetable for international recognition will make Kosovo a nation – it will be a nation when Serbs and Albanians can meet each other halfway at the Mitrovicë Bridge and not feel unwelcome when they step foot on the other side. Who knows how far off that is, but for now, it’s hardly a consideration.

“Do you ever go across the bridge?” I asked Iljaz Mataj. He shook his head grimly. Even the open-minded Iljaz could not shake the symbolic power of the bridge.